


Smashed

by KaeCooks



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: F/M, brettsey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaeCooks/pseuds/KaeCooks
Summary: It's been a week since she asked him to leave. They miss each other desperately, but who will be the first to call?Definitely at least a little Out of CharacterA little stronger than I would normally give a teen rating for, but I don't think it's quite strong enough for a mature rating.Despite what the characters might do here, please drink responsibly.AKA don't drink your emotions.
Relationships: Sylvie Brett/Matthew Casey
Comments: 20
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

“Damnit!” Matt exclaimed, throwing his phone down on the counter. 

It slid - not something he’d intended - and knocked a picture to the floor.

He cursed again as he sank to the floor. The frame was shattered and he was sure his phone screen was too. . . at least now he had a better reason than pure cowardice for not being able to call Sylvie. 

He brushed a couple shards aside and pulled the photo from beneath the glass. She stared back at him, her baby sister in her arms. Even if he hadn’t been there, standing right beside her, an arm wrapped around her back when this photo was taken, he’d still know she’d been crying, be able to see the subtle signs. 

Though he treasured this photo, the first he had of the two of them that didn’t also have Gabby and Antonio in it, he hated it right now because it was a reminder of how he’d left her. It had been a week since she’d asked him to leave her apartment, shattered like the frame on the floor. And like the frame, it was all his fault. 

How many times had he thought about kissing her like that, sweeping her right off her feet? Then finally,  _ finally _ he got it… and then he royally fucked it up. Now this picture was the closest he’d come to seeing her in a week. If he’d thought she was avoiding him the shift after that night at Molly’s, he had another thing coming. If it weren’t for a flash of blonde hair whenever the bells went off for 61, he’d think she’d disappeared entirely. 

And he missed her sorely.

He pushed himself off the floor and made his way to his whiskey cabinet. 

Was this a healthy way to deal with his current situation? 

No. 

Did he really care though? 

Absolutely not. 

He didn’t even bother with a glass, instead drinking straight out of the bottle. He’d wanted so badly to call her, to apologize, to fix what he’d wrecked, and to go back to what she’d started in her doorway. 

He wanted to carry her to bed and he never wanted to leave… but all of that - even if she could forgive him for the heartbreak he’d caused - banked on him being able to pick up the goddamn phone.

* * *

Sylvie propped herself up against her headboard, a newly opened bottle of riesling in hand. A week ago, she might have curled up on the couch to watch tv, or sat in the kitchen with a book and a single glass of her favorite wine, but that was a week ago.

Now, she could hardly stand to walk through her door, let alone spend any time in a part of her apartment she’d spent with  _ him _ . And she certainly didn’t want to ruin her love for rosé with this pain...which is why she got this riesling.

A sob nearly made her choke on the drink she’d just taken. What a fucking mess she’d made of herself. 

How many times had she thought about kissing him like that, dreamt of him sweeping her right off her feet? She was better off still wishing for it. 

Sure, wishing for it hurt, but this? She didn’t even have words for the pain ripping her apart. . . and now she could hardly spend ten seconds in any room of her apartment except the bedroom without breaking down. 

And it’s not like she could just go crash with Stella and Severide. Sure, Matt didn’t live there anymore, but she had memories with him there just the same. 

It was nothing short of a miracle she kept herself together at the firehouse.

Another long drink of the wine and she found herself reaching for her phone. 

Every night, she told herself she wasn’t going to check it. He was still in love with Gabby, that’s it. No way was Matt going to text her, ask her how her day off was, or wish her good night like he had so many nights before. 

Yet every night she came right back to old habits, reaching for her phone, checking incessantly. It was  _ Matt.  _ He wouldn’t just leave her high and dry, would he? 

Or was he waiting for  _ her _ to call  _ him? _ Afterall, she had been the one to ask him to leave.

She swiped her phone open and her thumb hovered over his name. The radio silence, the pain, she couldn’t take it anymore. Sure, his rejection hurt like hell, but they could still be friends, right?

Whether it was the half-bottle of wine she’d already finished off or a genuine longing for a friendship lost, she pressed call and shakily brought the phone to her ear. 

It started ringing. Once… twice...

Was he even awake this late?

A third ring… and a fourth...

Would he even want to talk to her?

It rang a fifth time and she let the phone fall to the bed, another sob forcing its way from within her. She’d ruined it. She’d ruined their friendship, everything good they had going. Matt never took this long to answer his phone. She curled herself around the bottle as the sobs wracked through her body, not caring that the call had officially connected to Matt’s voicemail. 

* * *

Matt was vaguely aware of his phone vibrating against a hard surface. He sleepily reached for it, fumbling around in his still half-drunken state. 

He swiped to answer and pulled it to his ear, mumbling “Hullo?”

But the sound of vibration persisted. He swiped the phone again and again, but it wouldn’t stop vibrating. Why wasn’t it letting him answer?

* * *

He blinked his eyes open, realizing his phone was ringing on the counter across the room, jumping to his feet when he recognized the ringtone. 

“Sylvie!” he rasped, voice raw from some combination of the self-loathing tears he’d shed and the effects of too much alcohol and not enough water. 

He stumbled toward the counter, narrowly avoiding the shards of glass still scattered across the floor. If only his world would stop spinning…

He grabbed the phone just as it stopped ringing and cursed. Just his luck, the first she acknowledges his presence in a week and he fucking missed it. 

He jabbed at the shattered screen, desperately trying to get his touch to register, trying to call her back, but it was a futile attempt. 

Without another thought, he was grabbing his coat and his wallet. He was reaching for his keys but thought better of it. He could barely walk. How was he supposed to drive?

No matter. He’d call an Uber. 

No.

Scratch that. 

He’d just have to hail a cab.

Worse case scenario, he would  _ walk  _ the three miles from his apartment to hers.

For at least a moment,  _ Sylvie Brett _ wanted to talk to  _ him _ . He wasn’t about to let that opportunity pass because he smashed his phone.

* * *

Sylvie grabbed the now-empty bottle and leaned heavily on the wall as she made her way to the kitchen. She may have a mess of a romantic life - one she just made significantly worse when she decided it was a good idea to kiss Matt - but she wasn’t about to let her apartment become a mess. Organization had to be maintained in  _ some  _ aspect of her life.

She slowly leaned over, laying the bottle amongst the other empties at the bottom of her recycling bin. 

She would just grab herself a tall glass of water and the bottle of tylenol and go to bed. Try other things as she might, sleep or taking care of a patient were the only things that successfully distracted her from the pain in her chest… and seeing how she wasn’t on shift at the moment, sleep was her best option. 

Before she could maneuver her way out of the kitchen, however, there was the sound of someone slumping against her door and a weak knock. 

Her eyes went wide and she took a tentative step in the direction of the door. Who was knocking so long after midnight? 

Another weak knock sounded, this time accompanied by something that sounded vaguely like her name.... And was that -

“Matt?” she asked tentatively, one hand hovering over the deadbolt. “Matt, is that you?”

“Sylvie,” he replied with a sigh of relief audible even through the door.

She pulled the door open and, for the first time in a week, stood face-to-face with the man she couldn’t stop loving, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much it hurt.

“I’m sorry I missed your call,” he started with a thick swallow, red-rimmed, pleading eyes searching hers. “It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you. I  _ do  _ want to talk to you. I’ve wanted to talk to you all week, but first, I want to do this.” He leaned in slowly and kissed her.

Anything she was about to say went out the window when his lips descended upon hers. A sober Sylvie might have pushed him away, insisted they talk first, no matter how much she wanted more of Matt after the short taste she’d gotten before her heart shattered all around them. Sober Sylvie would have gotten a definite answer before she so much as let him back into the apartment and would have protected her heart above all. Sober Sylvie definitely wouldn’t even think about just letting him take her to bed and figuring the rest out later. But Sober Sylvie wasn’t here. This was Very Drunk Sylvie, who’d gotten the same taste of Matt Casey a week ago and was much more desperate to finish what they’d started in the doorway. 

So she wrapped one arm behind his neck and deepened the kiss, tugging at his jacket zipper with the other hand. 

A moan slipped from his lips, delighted by her reciprocation. But, sober enough from the walk over - yes, he’d walked the whole three miles here - he knew they shouldn’t do this, knew she wouldn’t want to go any further without talking first. “Don’t you - shouldn’t we talk first?” he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders. 

“I don’t wanna talk. I just want you.”

It’s against his better judgement, but he indulges her, diving back in. He wants her too badly to argue. Before he knows it, they’ve made it right back to the couch, right back to where they were a week ago before everything fell apart. 

Except tonight, there’s no questions, and there’s no slowing down. There’s just the two of them, wrapped up in each other. 

She cries her release, clenching around him, and that’s all it takes for his final undoing. Her name tumbles from his lips and he falls on top of her, nestling his head in the crook of her neck. 

It’s not long before they’ve resituated themselves so they’re laying side by side on the couch. There will be questions tomorrow. There will be hard conversations tomorrow, although the answers - he realizes - aren’t hard at all. 

He’s got Sylvie in his arms and that’s all he needs - and all he wants.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after

Sylvie wakes up before the sun with a spinning head and the overwhelming need to pee. She pushes her blanket off of where it’s draped over her chest. It’s much heavier than she remembers it being as it slides off of her and lands on the couch behind her with a muffled  _ thunk _ and a grumble of protest.

Wow, she must still be  _ really _ drunk if she’s imagining her blanket grumbling at her. . . as if the world spinning more with each step she takes didn’t already give that away.

No matter. She’ll just go back to bed - in her actual bed this time (it’s much closer to the bathroom anyway) - and sleep it off.

* * *

His arm drops to the couch with an unceremonious  _ thunk _ and he stirs - a light sleeper thanks to his chosen profession. He grumbles, immediately missing the feeling of  _ her _ next to him. He cracks his eyes open, worried she’s trying to run away from him. After the night they just shared, he never wants her to run away from him, to hide from him, to avoid him again. He sees her turn into the bathroom and lets his eyes flutter back shut. 

She’s just using the restroom. She’ll be right back.

But when he opens them again, the sun is up and he realizes she never came back. When he fell asleep last night, the last thought on his mind was her. The last name off his lips was hers. He thought, somehow, last night solved anything unresolved between them. He thought that he’d wake up with her in his arms and it would be the beginning of the rest of their lives. A ball of panic rises within him, and he wants to call out, wants to find her and pull her back to him and never let her go, but he swallows it. 

Sleeping two people on a couch is less than ideal. She probably just went to her bed, Casey. Get it together.

He sits up and goes to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. He should go out and get a phone that’s actually functional today, but he doesn’t want to just leave. Nobody deserves that, least of all Sylvie. 

* * *

Sylvie wakes up again around nine with a pounding head -  _ You drank an entire bottle of wine, Brett, what did you expect _ ? - and there’s a dull ache between her legs, the kind that comes from a good, hard -  _ oh no. _

Memories from the night before come crashing down on her. Calling him, letting him in, giving herself to him.

In that moment, she swears she’s  _ never _ drinking again.

What was she thinking? She gave herself to a man who still loved someone else… and not just anyone else -

No. She can’t let that tear her apart now, not with the likelihood that he’s still in her living room, on her couch. 

She’s going to have to get rid of that couch if she wants any chance of being able to walk through her apartment again, but that’s a concern for later. Right now, she just needs water and something for her head… and maybe some food. She stands at her door and takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what lies ahead. 

* * *

The breakfast pizza Matt ordered them for breakfast was just delivered when he heard her come out of her room. He carries it into the kitchen a few steps behind her. He tries not to be disappointed when she glances over her shoulder and puts more distance between them. 

He puts the box down on the table and opens it. He doesn’t need to say anything for her to know it’s for them to share. 

She pours herself a cup of coffee then pulls out two plates, wordlessly handing him one of them. They take a seat at the table and each pull a couple slices from the box. 

They've each had one piece and are halfway through a second when she breaks the silence. The tylenol is starting to kick in and there's things that need said.  “Okay here’s the deal,” she says, actually looking at him for the first time in the fifteen or so minutes they’ve been in the same room. 

He startles partly because of the long stretch of silence preceding her statement, partly because of her tone. It’s one she only uses with him when he’s pushed it too far on a call and needs to take a breather. Never has she used this tone with him outside of the firehouse and he tries not to let it get to him.

“Last night, let’s just forget about it okay?”

“Sylvie -” he starts, reaching for her.

“Don't. Please,” she cuts him off, pulling away and crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I know I called you and I know I let you in, but one night of passion doesn’t solve what got you and me here to begin with. So let’s just forget it, okay? It was a -” she stops abruptly, the next word getting stuck in her throat when she looks up and finally sees the pain in his eyes.

He swallows hard. She didn’t have to say ‘mistake’ for him to hear it. So much for not letting it break him. “Don’t do this,” he pleads. “Don’t shut me out. We’re better than that. We have more than that.” Her strong front finally breaks as she sags back against her seat with a sigh that seems to say  _ Do we?, _ but now he’s on edge. She’s shouldering something that’s a result of him, of  _ his  _ stupidity, and she sounds like she’s about to make a decision for both of them. He refuses to fall into old patterns again. 

When she speaks again, her tone is softer, much closer to the one he’s used to hearing. “I’m not trying to shut you out, Matt. I just want things between you and me to go back to how they were.” She pauses, taking a long drink of her coffee. “A week ago, that’s on me. I’ll own that. I should have known you were still -”

“Stop!” he cuts her off, setting his mug down with a little more force than necessary. “You can’t  _ know _ if you don’t  _ listen  _ to me.” 

She winces away from his outburst and he mentally kicks himself. It needed to be said, but he maybe should have used a little more tact. 

“Listen,” he says, quieter this time. “I know this -” He gestures between them. “- is messy -”

“You could say that again,” she mumbles into her mug.

“- but I don’t want to go back to being just friends unless you’re one hundred percent sure that’s what you want. So many times, Sylvie, _too_ many times, I thought I lost you, whether that be to someone else, somewhere else, or something else entirely,” his voice cracks, the memory still fresh in his mind seeing where 61 broke through the guard rail on that bridge and the ambulance a crushed, smoking wreck below. Tears well up in his eyes, but he persists. She _has_ to know. “I can't tell you how relieved I was last week when you crawled out of that ambo. I got one more chance to show you what you meant to me... and I screwed it up again... but it’s you, Sylvie. I only want you.”

He’s leaned toward her, his eyes are searching hers, and it’s the most vulnerable she’s seen him. His hands are fisting and unfisting in his lap like he wants to reach out but doesn’t want to be rejected again. 

She doesn’t say anything,  _ can’t  _ say anything right now with this lump in her throat, so she meets him where he’s at, lays her hands on top of his and folds their fingers together.  The crease in his forehead smooths almost instantaneously and he lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

When they kiss, it feels so much like their first. It’s soft and it’s tender.

He puts everything into this kiss that he wants to tell her, about how much she means to him, how he’ll never let her go, about how much love he has for her, and how - to him - she’ll never be second. 

If the way she smiles against his lips is any indication, she understands every word of what he didn’t say, and that’s more than enough.


End file.
